Chapter 130 – In which doubting sincerity is an occupational disease and can’t be helped (3)
“Grandmaster Scarlen, I would truly appreciate if you’ve stopped drilling holes in my face and watch where are you going.”
Sangria, unable to stand it any longer, stopped in his tracks.
Scarlen, who was walking beside him, with his eyes fixed on Sangria, also stopped.
Due to that, Iben, who was leading the way, also had to stop and turn around to check the situation.
Receiving the gazes of two men, Scarlen finally shrugged and addressed his uncle:
“Master Iben, what do you think of Master Sangria’s beauty?”
Iben tilted his head and looked Sangria over, considering the question.
“I’m not sure. Personally, I prefer men, who… look more mature.”
His gaze stopped on Sangria’s jaw, devoid of any facial hair.
Sangria quickly covered it, suddenly becoming very self-conscious of his body.
On the other side, Scarlen agreed with his uncle.
“Indeed. I always thought that Master Sangria looks like a dumpling. Ah, that’s a compliment, Master Sangria.”
“It doesn’t sound like that.” Sangria gave Scarlen a side-eye, before blurting out “And Our Lord doesn’t have any facial hair either.”
“Well… yes, he said they stopped growing at some point. I thought it was because of stress. And other things…”
Scarlen’s eyes darkened as he thought that Crimo was starving for the last few years.
“Ehem, anyway. It isn’t that I didn’t try. It just didn’t go well.”
“Master Sangria, you can’t say such a thing to a mage, and leave at that. I’m very curious now. What happened?”
Sangria avoided Scarlen’s burning gaze, slightly covering his face with a sleeve.
“The only place hair grow is the tip of my chin. And a few random long hair on my chin look very awkward.”
“…”
“…”
Iben just expressionlessly looked at Sangria.
Scarlen covered his mouth and didn’t make any sound, but his shoulders were shaking.
Sangria now glared at Scarlen with unobscured fury.
“Having fun on an important mission given by Lord Archmage, Grandmaster Scarlen?”
Scarlen immediately wiped away his smile.
“Apologies. I just never realized how useful Master Sangria’s face may be.” He suddenly turned very solemn. “Master Sangria, if it will ever make you uncomfortable, please tell me. I’ll try my best to ease burden on you.”
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Sangria also stopped glaring and just silently nodded.
He understood what that Scarlen was referring to the Saint’s plain favor towards him.
Scarlen sighed inside.
‘It’s really unexpected.’
It wasn’t that Scarlen thought that Sangria was unattractive, he had his charms, but he didn’t expect the Saint from all people to fell for them so hard.
And even more unexpectedly, to be so open about it.
‘Is that some kind of trap? Following saving Crimo, to now showing fancy to Master Sangria… what the hell is he planning?’
Scarlen knew that in some ways, the position of a Saint was even more of a figurehead than an Archmage.
It was a face without substance.
If Saint Amara planned to wriggle some administrative power for himself…
Scarlen put his suspicions aside for a moment, and instead he turned to the man, who was leading them through the streets.
‘He acts no different from usual…’
Though Scarlen’s ‘usual’ was based on nothing but a very stressful for the observation subject week.
Still, he caught the brief moment of panic in Iben when that attendant was taken away.
Even if he wasn’t sure what exactly it entitled, but there was no question it wasn’t anything good.
Scarlen’s gaze turned from Iben to the street.
‘… It’s not so different here, huh?’
Once they took the leave of the main street, though the architecture remained unfamiliar, the smells and sounds that felt foreign disappeared, instead replaced by the scenes of life that were all of too familiar.
Kids in less than neat clothes huddled together around some interesting bug.
Elders spinning strings from anything they got to make a cloth from.
People arguing about the prices of clearly unsanitary food.
He saw those scenes in Rubrun too.
Something, which for people living there appeared so normal, but for him, who was raised in luxury, felt so alien.
Even after he got his hand on the rights to manage the Magic Exchange and got to bring in those less than fortunate workers, even when he tried to mingle among them and get to know and understand them…
He still felt like intruder.
“… Not so different here, huh?”
He heard Sangria at his side murmur with the same sentiment, his gaze directed at a group of vagrants gathered around what appeared to be a game of chess made out of stones and sand.
Unlike Scarlen, Sangria’s eyes were full of understanding.
Because he was there, among them in the past.
They crossed a few more streets of the Brook District, before they finally reached their destination.
A two-story building with a small front yard, somehow isolated from the rest.
Iben momentarily hesitated at the gate and then strolled in.
A person appearing in their 50s with a black cloth covering her right eye, who was fiddling with a broken basket at the doorsteps, looked up.
And abruptly scrambled to their feet and ran up to Iben, grabbing his hand.
“You came back!” Then the person, who appeared to be a priest, turned her head towards the building and shouted. “Perlliar, our son come back!”
There was a loud noise from inside the building.
“Cotteo, if you please could let go of my hand.”
Iben spoke as if he was holding back a heavy sigh.
“Ah, yes. But… who are those people behind you?”
“This Grandmaster Scarlen—.”
“Perlliar, our son brought his nephew!!”
There was even louder noise from inside.
Scarlen leaned over.
“Is that some kind of joke?”
“Haa… I’m afraid they’re completely sincere.”
Iben looked like he wanted to disappear into chasms of the earth and never reappear.
*-*-*
*So what is it called if you watch someone sleep through a window?*
*Stalking.*
*Romanticism.*
*… We’re getting mixed signals here.*
*It’s like an aquarium’s experience.*
*What?*
*Each one of you is in separate worlds, unable to touch or speak, and can only stare at each other… only the other person have no idea about it.*
*That’s terrifying.*
*Am? Am, don’t become a fish. I don’t want to eat Am.*
*Am is more of a fisher….*
Amara put down a finished letter and cleaned the brush, preparing to write another.
His gaze briefly turned towards the street outside of the temple.
‘It’s fine. I don’t need to watch him sleep, because he will come to me himself.’
Amara’s gaze seemed to see through busy streets and high buildings, and focus on a small temple on the outskirts of Purplus’ capital.
‘Because I’m the only one, who has what they want.’
With a smirk, he returned to his work.
*-*-*
Citrie was feverish.
He thought that it would get better with time, but it wasn’t the case.
Rather, it was opposite.
But his workaholic brain didn’t miss the arrow of the mechanical clock, that were popular in Rubrun, moving.
‘It’s time…’
He wobbly got up and took something from his pack.
A flat, triangular box of sand, with strange machinery attached to the side.
Picking up the stylus, he wrote with bold strokes.
[Young Lady.]
Then he pressed a button, and the box slightly vibrated.
As he was instructed, he flattened the sand and waited.
The box vibrated again and:
[Sir Citrie.]
An answer came from the other side.
Even in Citrie’s dizzy state, he couldn’t help but be surprised.
He knew that Flavun was working on this type of long-distance technology, but he heard that they had yet to yield results.
How did Young Lady Saffra managed to do it after just tweaking with it for a few days, he had no idea.
Though he suspected it had something to do with craving leaf patterns, and stuffing it with leaves and grass.
[Your status?]
Citrie hesitated at the question that followed the greeting.
He wished to say that he was fine… that he could do it… he had personal things to check in Rubrun… but…
[Young Lady. Can go back and take a vacation?]
He wasn’t so sure he could do it in his current state.
The machine was silent for a full minute, before it vibrated again, drawing letters in the sand.
[Who are you and what did you do to Sir Citrie?]
*~*~
